Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Louise24601
Summary: As the sheriff of Storybrooke, Emma Swan is very concerned when Killian Jones comes to town. It looks like he might mean trouble and she can't shake the feeling that he's hiding something... and no matter the means, she's going to find out what it is. AU. Hook/Emma. No magic.
1. Chapter 1

She hadn't been having a good day. No particular reason. The weather had been heavy and hot and drizzling. She'd accidentally kicked her favorite coffee mug from the kitchen table before going to work. Especially though, she'd arrested two people today, both kids, both on grounds of inebriety, which was a lot for Storybrooke. Oh, and she'd gotten a funny look from one of them who apparently didn't think she looked mean – or was it tough? – enough to arrest anyone. _You serious, C'mon darling_ , an unpleasant enough reminder of being young and a woman and beautiful and blond.

Those weren't things that were bad as such. _But I'm doing a_ man's _job_ , Emma thought bitterly, _once in a while, there's always someone all too willing to remind me that's what I'm doing_.

"Another one of those?" The bartender asked – though she didn't come here very often, she knew his name was Bill and he had three children and was cheating on his wife. Storybrooke was a small town.

"No," she contemplated the empty glass in front of her. "No, I should be getting back."

"Now, that's too bad."

The interruption came from a customer Emma hadn't noticed before, sitting a couple of seats away – the lighting was too dim for her to make out his face. His voice was pleasant, low and deep, and _rich_ , like dark chocolate, the kind that's an acquired taste.

The man got on his feet and stepped forward. "I was just about to buy you a drink."

His looks were what you'd expect from his voice. Confidence means charm, not always handsome – which he happened to be – and the smile was a perfect indicator that he was well aware of it.

"You're new to town," Emma heard herself say.

"Quite right." That smile of his beamed, a crack of moonlight. "Did the accent give me away?"

She didn't humor this with a laugh. "No, really – it's just that everyone here knows pretty much everyone."

"Ah." He sat on the stool next to her. The bartender had gone on minding his own business. "You were born here?"

"Yes." Which made her think she was entitled to a special interest in newcomers – oh, sometimes they were just passing by, trying to get a break from a big city, looking for a momentary escape. Sometimes, though, they meant trouble. And sometimes they were there to stay.

Emma appraised the stranger for a few seconds. In all likelihood, he'd think she was wondering whether he'd be decent company for the night, not that she had a professional interest in what he was doing in Storybrooke.

When she was done, he gave out a tame chuckle – meant to come off as harmless. "I'm Killian." He said.

 _Killian_ , Emma thought to herself. _We don't get a lot of those around here_.

"So," he resumed, chuckled again. Somehow, she thought he wasn't half as nervous as he tried to look. "There're a couple of things I could think to call you, love –"

Now, she couldn't hold back a surprised scoff. Yet again, he seemed like the type to be forward – and was there any other type, past ten o'clock in a bar?

"But a name might be nice."

Emma bit her lower lip, considering this. She still wanted him to think she was considering him for other reasons. Really, he didn't really _look_ like a troublemaker. Too calm; too patient. But there was something about him, she didn't know what – something in the corner of his eyes, in the dark depths of his voice – that just made her think he wasn't _quite_ what he wanted you to think.

In the end, it was better to enter his game for a while, find out what she could about him.

"Emma," she said.

" _Emma_ ," he repeated. For a reason she was incapable to determine, a chill crawled down her spine. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She agreed but ordered something light. You never know when clear-headedness will come in handy.

"Well," she said, apparently making conversation, twirling the straw in her glass. The drink was the color of a radioactive rainbow; the ice cubes danced on with a delicate chime. "How long are you staying in town?"

"Oh, I can't really say. Long enough." There was that smile again. The smile was good, very good; it would make him charming even if he looked vile. "All I can say's I'm planning to settle down for a bit."

"Are you?"

"Why don't you tell me a few stories about this place?" He suggested. "Seems only fitting, since you've been here all your life. You must know it well."

Emma smiled back. "Better than anyone. But you know, there's not much to say. It's a quiet place. Few people, but tight. We take care of our own."

"That's good. I love places that have a homey spirit." When he thought she was busy finishing her drink, he eyed her up and down and back again, blue eyes disappearing under dark lashes. No, really, she thought, amused. He wasn't her type at all. "So what'd you do for a living, anyway?"

The casualness of his question got her laughing softly. It was time this little game came to an end. "Oh," she made sure she still sounded flirtatious. "I do plenty. I execute arrest warrants. I go patrolling. I investigate. And of course, I do way too much paperwork."

The smile on Killian's lips slowly morphed into a look of disbelief. Priceless. "You're the _sheriff_?"

"Yes."

"No."

"I assure you."

Now that he looked crestfallen and no longer so keen on hitting on her, Emma felt confident enough to write down her number the napkin near her drink.

"Here," she handed the napkin over and he'd sufficiently recovered from his astonishment to take it. "That way if you see anything wrong during your stay to Storybrooke, you'll know where to reach me."

Picking up her purse from the stool on her left, she got on her feet and left him sitting there. Before she'd taken more than three steps, she heard him ask. "Is that the only circumstances under which I'm allowed to call you?"

She cast a glance over her shoulder and met his eyes. "I'm afraid so. Have a pleasant evening, Killian."

"It was nice meeting you," he retorted.

Just from the tone he used, she could tell he'd regained the confidence she'd shaken by taking him aback.

Then he added with a mischievous smile, " _Emma_."

And ridiculously enough, she shuddered as she had the first time.

…

 **AN** : I know most of you are waiting for an update on "Redbreast in a Cage" but I feel like I'll never have the heart to finish it if I don't have another Hook/Emma story going on ; ). Please let me know your reactions! See you soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma had not been having a pleasant night. Really, she'd not been having a pleasant _week_ , what with the Halloween holidays leading to way too many arrests for public inebriation, and on minors for the main part. The look on parents when she had to tell them their sons or daughters were sitting in jail, sobering up – not just disappointment or concern but _anger_ , the kind that turns the world red.

Of course, their anger wasn't _meant_ for her. But sometimes, it almost felt like it was. Because no matter how many times people are told not to hate the messenger, primal instinct is set deeper than reason. Now, she was almost sure, when she ran into those people again at the grocery store or in the streets, from how they lowered their eyes immediately, that they hated her, for being a reminder of their guilty habits, their dirty secrets.

 _A few centuries ago_ , Emma thought, _they would have burned me at the stake, would have needed no other reason than my being independent and influential enough and female_. Wasn't it crazy, that when you cared for people, were the one who took on the job of keeping them safe, they looked at you not only as if they resented your help, but as if they meant to send you to your proper place?

But Halloween night was just a little bit worse than even the last few had been.

For starters, the young man she picked up walking around town, clutching a bottle of wine while cheerfully howling 1990 songs out of tune, was her colleague's son, Stevie Jenkins. It didn't make him worse than your regular drunken teenager, but it did make him a more problematic one.

From the kid's clothes, Emma could gather he'd been trying to dress up as Elvis Presley, which might at least have inspired him to sing better songs.

"Emma Swan," Stevie said from the backseat, his eyes shot red, his cheeks purple. "My father will _not_ be happy to see me tonight."

"I reckon not. Don't worry, he's not on duty. Better I let you cool it off in the precinct for a few hours before I take you home."

"Do you know for the past three years, I've had the most embarrassing crush on you?"

"No. I'm also choosing to hope you won't remember volunteering this information." It was the sort of thing Emma could repress in the space of a few minutes. Right now, honestly, she was less worried about the kid declaring his flame than she was about him throwing up in her vehicle.

"It's true, though. Ever since that day in class when you came teaching us about drugs and booze –"

"Clearly, my presentation didn't have such an impact."

Loud noises coming from the motor caught Emma's attention, and she forgot about scolding her drunk passenger for a bit. Frowning, she pulled over on the side of the road and unbuckled her seatbelt. "You stay right here." She said. "I'm going to check something out."

By then, Stevie's speech had sunk to an unintelligible rambling, but she wasn't sure he stopped talking even after she shut the car door.

An inauspicious black smoke rose into the air when she lifted the hood of her police car. The night was cold, wind blowing iced drizzle into her face.

"Great," she said to herself. "Just great." A few of her colleagues were on patrol, she could call and ask them to give them a lift but it'd be an hour at least. She didn't like the thick-blackness of that smoke – maybe it wasn't safe staying inside the car at all.

What was she going to do with a seventeen-year-old invalid, freezing, on Halloween night? She needed to get back to work, simply didn't have time for this. Muttering curses through her clenched teeth, she was headed back to the car to fetch her walkie just when she heard another vehicle drawing near.

Hope rocketed in her breast. With some luck, it'd be someone she was well-familiar with – there _were_ people in town who actually appreciated her work. "Please," she whispered, "anything but a drunk teenager."

The car was black, not particularly noticeable but not anonymous. Emma sighed when it pulled over behind her own vehicle, but relief died a sudden death, leaving way to surprise – then slight suspicion – as the driver got out of his car and joined her outside.

" _You_ ," she said, without thinking, as if he were the only person in the world the pronoun could refer to.

The man was none other than the stranger she'd met in a bar, a couple of weeks ago. Killian, she remembered his name, had somehow expected he might cause trouble and they'd be brought to meet again, though not under these circumstances.

"Emma," he replied, irreproachably polite, his eyes skimming her uniform for a few seconds. "Or maybe I should say Sheriff Swan? I wouldn't resent it if you wanted me to address you properly."

"Emma is fine," her inability to tame her startle put a pucker between her brows.

His mouth broke into a charming smile – now that she was no longer just a lone woman in a bar, the smile was perfectly chaste. Still there was something inside her, a bone-ingrained instinct that wouldn't buy his act of the good Samaritan. _It's too smooth_ , she thought, _too polished_.

It took effort to mask the turmoil in her brain. Killian remarked, with mock nonchalance, "You look surprised to see me."

"I am. You must have lain low for the past couple of weeks – no one's seen you around. I thought you might have skipped town."

"How do you know who's seen me?" The smile grew half an inch. "Did you ask?"

"There was no need to. We so rarely get newcomers, if you'd been seen, I would have heard about it."

Killian laughed. It seemed to her he was pleasantly aiming to scatter that air of suspicion in her eyes. "Well, I had some work to do. I haven't been coming out much."

"And what sort of work do you do, if you don't mind me asking?"

Though his smile never wavered, it maybe looked a bit strained. "Not at all. I'm actually a writer."

"Fancy that. Anything I might have heard of?"

"Nothing that's actually gone further than my desktop. But I hope to change that. Say, Sheriff, this seems like a quiet town," an imperceptibly teasing edge in how he called her _Sheriff_ , a shine of malice in his blue eyes, "ideal to publish a novel."

"I wouldn't know about that."

Why did it upset her, the thought of the stranger settling here? Despite her job, it wasn't like Emma to be naturally suspicious of others. Something about Killian wasn't right, or was maybe _too_ right. Something in that charming act and those unsmiling eyes of him that just smelled of lies.

"Well," he concluded. "I'll let you know what I think." Then he unhooked his eyes from her to glance at her police car. The tension in Emma's chest was released, as she refocused on the broader situation. The hood of her vehicle was still lifted. Killian arched a brow. "I'm shooting in the dark here, but are you having any problems with your car?"

"That's very funny."

He looked back at her, prompt and chivalrous. "Is there anything I can do?"

Emma clenched her teeth. She could tell he noticed, in his smile, even though it didn't really enlarge or look any more mischievous. "No, we're all right. I'm just going to call some backup. Wouldn't want to trouble you." What she especially wouldn't want was to feel indebted to him. The prospect of spending half an hour in his car didn't strike her as heaven either.

"Nonsense." He adopted a faint look of outrage. "No trouble at all in being of service to my new community." The hairs in Emma's neck bristled when he said this. "Really, it's rather lucky I happened to drive by. Imagine you standing alone on the side of the road, on such a night – Halloween's rather a troubled time of year. Anything could happen."

"Anything?"

Though you couldn't hear the caution in her voice, it was planted firmly. What did he mean by this?

The stranger shrugged his shoulders. Even if she knew his name, she couldn't quite bring herself to think of him as anything but that – a stranger. "Well, don't you believe in ghouls, vampires, other creatures of the night?"

"I'm always around at night. I think I would have seen them by now."

He kept silent, but something in that silence seemed to whisper: _we'll see about that_.

"In any case," he said, casting a look at her car again, "I'm sorry to contradict you, but I don't think you should wait for your colleagues to pick you up. That young man in there looks very sick."

"He's sobering up."

"Would you sooner have him throw up in my car or yours?"

"Fair enough." She conceded. "But if you insist on giving us a ride to the precinct, I'm going to have to ask you to let me drive."

A burst of laughter, maybe more genuine than the last. "Do you not trust anyone, Emma, or am I to take it I'm special?"

"Whichever you like."

"Very well."

He offered no assistance as she dragged Stevie out of her car and into the backseat of his. She'd have been insulted if he had.

"Here you go," he threw his car keys at her. "You know, considering you gave me your phone number in case I should run into trouble, maybe I should give you mine." He offered smugly. "In case you need me again."

Emma bit back a sigh. "You know what?" She took the time of sounding serious, holding eye-contact. "It'll probably be unnecessary. I have a feeling you and I will run into each other again, without needing to try."

He smiled – a smile of excuse, not as confident as he looked. "Well, Storybrooke's a small town."

It was. But that's not what Emma meant, and she felt convinced he knew that.

…

 **End Notes** : I'd completely forgotten about this story until I wrote the second chapter. Please share your thoughts, let me know your theories.


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